


5 times we used alcohol as an excuse

by evergreen_melancholy



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Feelings, M/M, Mostly twincest, Sexual Tension, Thomas really likes Miro, Thomas/Miro, Truth or Dare, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evergreen_melancholy/pseuds/evergreen_melancholy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Make out with your brother," Mats said, with a seriousness that only came from complete intoxication. If Sven knew what that one kiss would lead to, he would've picked truth right away.</p><p>Sven/Lars, large amounts of Thomas/Miro, and hints of Mario/Marco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 times and it's still so wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: twincest! Mostly kissing. Also, I threw in some Mario/Marco, and also some Thomas/Miro. And bigbrother!Manuel.

Rating: R

 

Warnings: Twincest. Kissing.

 

Pairings: Götzeus, Bendercest, slight Müller/Klose, various others

 

*

 

**I.**

 

The first time it happened, him and Lars were both drunk.

 

Lars thinks nothing of it--or rather, maybe Lars can't even _remember_ \--but Sven can.

 

It started with Mats sneaking the entire team booze.

 

Drunk as everyone was, someone still had enough breath to suggest 'Truth or Dare'. If Sven thinks back upon it now, it might've been Lukas, might've been Andre--but it didn't matter, because what happened that night was just a goddamn massacre of everyone's privacy.

 

Thomas was first, because he scored their last goal. Sven observed the scene with tired eyes.

 

"Truth," Thomas slurred, half leaning against Manuel's shoulder.

 

"Oh man, no dare?" The goalkeeper teased, poking him in the cheek. Thomas' only response was to mutter something, and then he leaned more against Manuel's shoulders.

 

"No dare," Thomas said, mouth muffled by Manuel's muscle shirt. Thomas bunched one hand in the flexible material, and scrunched his face.

 

"How are you so ripped? Man, I'm so jealous of your arms...man, Manuel, we should just call you Man from now on, Man!"

 

"Careful now, Thomas," Mats said in a sing-song voice. "If Grandpa Miro saw you like that, he'd be upset!"

 

"Wish he were here," Thomas muttered, and then he stood up. "Alright, c'mon, I picked truth, ask me something. Basti, hand me another beer!"

 

"No way, you gotta answer the question first," Bastian said, and grabbed the nearest beer before Thomas could grab it.

"So, Thomas, you ever thought about Miro in _that_ way?" Lukas asked quickly, eyes flashing with something dangerous...and then it went away.

 

"Don't know what you're talking about."

 

"You know what I'm talking about!"

 

"He has a family."

 

"And yet I bet you were jealous when he snuggled me after I made a goal," Lars says suddenly, a stupid smile blossoming on his face. Sven could only look at his brother--Lars was completely different when he was drunk. Thomas' only reply was a scoff, but Sven noticed the flash of jealousy on his face before he collapsed on Manuel again.

 

"Fine then, _dare,_ " Thomas sighs, and then sticks out his tongue at Bastian. The older midfielder simply reaches into his pocket, dials a number on his phone, and hands it to Thomas.

 

"Call Miro," Bastian says, disturbingly serious this time. "I know you want to."

 

And then before Thomas can say anything, Manuel quickly presses 'dial'--Thomas is in panic, because the person picks up immediately, and he stands up in a hurry, straightens his back, clears his voice--

 

"H-hello? Miro? Listen, Miro--yes, I know what time it is--listen, I love you, yeah, I know--"

 

And then Manuel ushers Thomas out onto the balcony, and shuts the door, cutting off his slurred voice. From his seat, Sven can see Manuel sitting next to Thomas as he makes the call-- _he's a nice guy,_ Sven thinks.

 

And with that, the room was quiet, and Sven fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. Mats, of course, took notice immediately. Sly bastard.

 

"Yo, _Sven,_ so nice of you to join us!" Mats half-slurred, half-shouted. "Nice seeing another Bender! Now, truth, or dare?"

 

"Dare," Sven said, without even thinking of the consequences. He didn't think that a room full of drunk football players was a menacing idea.

 

Boy, was he wrong.

 

"I'll take any dare," Sven says, as casually as possible. Mats surveys the room, eyes landing on Lars, who's looking at his little brother with an amused smile. If Sven were sober enough, he'd assess the danger of the situation by the smirk on Mats' face. Of course, he didn't. And Mats opened his mouth.

 

 "Make out with your brother," Mats said, with a seriousness that only came from complete intoxication. "I'm going to time you, okay?"

 

Sven's eyes widened--no _way._ And then he's looking up at Lars who's familiar eyes are also looking at him, so blue, so identical to his, and Sven can't, not with his brother, not like this--

 

"Isn't that going a little overboard, Mats?" Andre questions, worry flittering across his features. Mats' only respond is to wave a hand to dismiss him.

 

"Go to it," Mats says, and looks at his watch. "I'll give you...thirty seconds. It's not bad!"

 

The room is silent, and Sven can practically _feel_ Lars even at this distance--he blames the alcohol, blames Mats, blames everyone--

 

But then, Sven finds himself in front of his older brother, his own body betraying his mind, and he reaches a hand out to cup Lars' cheek. His skin is soft and warm under his fingertips, with a soft buzz from the alcohol. Sven takes a deep breath--it was okay--it was just a stupid game, just kissing, just thirty seconds--

 

He leans in, pressing his lips against a face so familiar to his. Lars' lips are soft, he tastes like alcohol and vanilla chapstick, and then there's something building in Sven's chest, like a bee's nest--and suddenly Sven wants to feel his brother's tongue in his mouth, wants to feel his tongue in the mouth on his--

 

Lars' mouth parts beneath his, and Sven's breath hitches as he swipes his lips across Lars' mouth, and then he can practically _taste_ the sudden need for more in his brother's mouth, feels his brother's skin get warmer beneath his hands--

 

And then thirty seconds are up, and Mats separates them with a swift chop by sliding his hand between their faces.

 

"Yo, don't get me wrong, but that was really hot," Mats says. The tension in the room suddenly increases, and everyone's fidgeting. Mats is just glowing, like some smug little bastard who just made a goal.

 

"Who's next?" Mats is smiling, looking at Mario with a glint in his eye.

 

Later on, the party got out of hand when Mats dared Mario to seduce Marco--all Mario had to do was blush and look at the floor, and Marco was on him in a matter of seconds.

 

Throughout the ruckus and clinking of empty beer bottles, Sven sees Lars from the corner of his eye--his brother is looking at him. Sven feels hot under his collar, and then--

 

Mario's moan pierces the silence and good g _od,_ where the hell did Marco learn how to do _that_ with his mouth?

 

Sven heads out the room.

 

He's going to need more than just an aspirin in the morning.

 

**II.**

Sven felt his brother’s lips for a second time after another victory—over who, he doesn’t even remember, just remembers everyone shoving each other into a crowded locker room, remembers more cheers and Lukas’ loud scream of victory.

 

Everyone’s cheering, taking selfies, tweeting, stripping, getting drunk—someone snuck in some booze, Sven’s not surprised, it’s probably Bastian or something—

 

And then he sees Thomas, an arm around Miroslav, who has crinkles in his eyes and smiles that touch his entire face—Thomas is smiling, glowing, celebrating, and keeping a claim over his territory all at the same time. The only thing is, Miroslav probably has no idea.

 

But Thomas does, and Sven watches with amusement (as does the rest of the team) when Thomas grabs Miroslav’s face.

 

“Miro, you beast,” Thomas practically yells into the Co-Captain’s face, hands pushing upwards on cheeks to distort skin. “You’re such a beast!”

 

And then Thomas can only press his forehead into the one in front of him, and nothing else, because, after all—there are twin boys out there, with a loving father, with eyes big and wide and blue as the sea. And Thomas knows that those boys will always win.

 

And then just as Sven’s feeling a little bad for the younger man, there’s a tap on his shoulder, and he turns around—

 

“You were great,” Lars shouts, with a gigantic smile on his face—

 

And then his brother leans in and pecks him on the lips.

 

It was just a peck, but later that night, when Sven was in the shower, he brought two fingers to his lips—they still tingled, still felt the presence of warmer ones—

 

It’s embarrassing, really, how fast he comes after thinking about it. But if Lars would do that again after every win, then Sven would run his heart out on the pitch. He really would.

 

**III.**

The third time it happened—yes, it happened a goddamn third time, it was purely accidental, Sven _swears to god_ that it was an accident.

 

But then reality hits him and he realizes that he had Lars against their car in the middle of the street, and his tongue was in Lars' mouth, and then Sven thinks that it was totally an accident, totally an accident--

_It wasn't his fault._

Sven was on the bench the whole 90 minutes--he watched his brother run, muscles rippling under bright lights and loose jerseys. He wondered if that skin would be identical to his--or would it be softer, warmer, and smooth beneath his fingers...

 

Sven thinks about the game, watches his brother's face twist in concentration as he springs and passes balls, watches his brother's tongue dart out to lick his lips--he sees a flash of skin above sharp hipbones when Lars quickly jumps in the air for a header, and _Jesus,_ Sven needs to stop.

 

So he heads to a bar, by himself, and nurses a cup of vodka, mind thinking of anything and everything _but_ Lars. In the end, he gives up on nursing and finishes 5 glasses before feeling like shit. And then, as he stumbles out of the bar, he realizes that _shit,_ he doesn't have a ride home. And the only person that can give him one is...

 

Sven shakes his head, hands fumbling for his phone--he needs a taxi, or maybe he'll even call a teammate to pick him up, anything's better than going home with the guy you want to push down into a mattress, even though he's your brother, your _twin_ brother--

 

The alcohol isn't helping, not one bit, Sven thinks.

 

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks down at it and nearly drops the thing.

 

_Incoming call: Lars_

Sven shakily raises the phone to his ear, and presses the button.

 

"H-Hello?" He asks carefully, not wanting to let Lars know that he was drunk.

 

"Sven? Hey, where are you--are you okay? I got worried," Lars says quickly, and his voice over the phone sounds deeper, huskier, and Sven feels even more dizzy.

 

"'M fine," Sven mumbles into the phone. "On my way r'now." It was a lie. He wasn't on his way home, he didn't have a way home.

 

"Okay--I'll wait for you, hold on--are you drunk?"

 

"No, m'okay, bro I'm okay--"

 

"No, you're not. Stay where you are, Sven, I'm serious. I'll be there in a few minutes."

 

"I swear m'fine," Sven starts, but Lars had already hung up. Sven stares at his phone, and sighs. He was the worst person on this planet. He was the absolute worst. His head filled with insults towards himself and derogative phrases, but the curling of warm fingers around his wrist brought Sven back to reality.

 

"And you said you weren't drunk," Lars said, small smile splaying across his features. "C'mon, let's go home, Sven." And then he gave Sven's wrist a small tug, and Sven feels the building-up of something tight in his chest again, feels a buzz that's not from the alcohol, feels--

 

Lars' fingers were awfully warm against his skin--seriously, how was his brother so warm? And Sven allows himself to be lead to the car, simply watches everything around him in a drunken gaze, and he's ignorant to everything else until his eyes settle on Lars' mouth in front of him.

 

His brother was fumbling for his keys, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to see in the dark. Sven's eyes trail down to Lars' throat, watches an Adam's apple bob, watches the skin move, wants to touch it--

 

Before he can stop himself, his hand is reaching for Lars' neck, and he pulls him closer. Lars is pressed up agains the car, and Sven's hand is hot on his neck--it's not really a full-blown confidence from him, but it isn't the alcohol either.

 

"What're you doing, Sven," Lars says, smile still on his face. "C'mon, we gotta go now."

 

Sven's hand curls around his neck, fingers slowly digging into Lars' neck. His other hand reached out and gently pushed Lars against the car, and then--

 

"Lars," he breathes out, and his voice sounds so desperate to his own ears, and he sees Lars widen his eyes, flinch, feels his skin tense--

 

And then Sven leans in, smooths his lips against the corner of his brother's mouth, feels Lars tremble beneath him, feels electricity running through his entire body--

 

Lars exhales, and his breath hitches as Sven tucks a knee between his legs--he feels Lars tense even more, sees his mouth part a little, and Sven takes this opportunity to press his lips to his brother's--

 

And then it's as if a switch had been flipped.

 

Lars tries to push him off, but then Sven presses harder, lets his hands grip Lars' hips, and then he trembles as his brother lets out a soft groan, and then fists his hand into Sven's shirt, and then Sven's pressing Lars harder against the car, needs to get closer to him, closer to his warmth, closer--

 

Their tongues curl together, and Lars tastes like mint toothpaste. And then Sven stops--because his mind clears all of a sudden, and it seems that Lars' had too, and they jump apart, avoiding each other's eyes.

 

The ride home usually takes seven minutes.

 

To Sven, it felt like seven years.

 

**IV.**

 Four somehow happens after the team goes out to eat at a new Italian restaurant.

 

Mario recommended it to them, saying that him and Marco loved it there—to which the team started a chorus of catcalls—but Mario only ignored them, and wrote down the address on a piece of paper. By now, it’s as if the team doesn’t really give a damn anymore—they see the way that their eyes linger on each other, see the way Marco swallows when Mario’s shirt rides up while they’re training…

 

Sven finds it both distracting and awkward at the same time, but not as awkward as the relationship between Manuel, Thomas, and Miroslav.

 

Thomas still trailed after the older man in a puppy-like fashion, hanging on to every word the striker said; taking every recommendation that fell from his lips. And, often, Thomas’ drunken phone calls would also increase, and if Miroslav noticed, he didn’t say anything. Because it was most likely that he didn’t notice, and would never notice.

 

Manuel, on the other hand, was just there to mend the pieces. He’d be by Thomas if he needed him, like a caring older brother who spent too much time protecting his little sister. But Sven understands the parental urges around Thomas; after all, the guy was basically still a 16-year-old in an older skin. But Sven sees more into the relationship; Thomas just genuinely likes Miroslav. No extra strings attached; no desperate need for attention—he’d just fallen in love with that humble, quiet, and respectful nature that the striker possessed, and that’s it.

 

It’s Lars’ elbow that jolts him out of his thoughts. He gives Sven a look, like he knows what he’s thinking, but probably doesn’t, just gives the look because he’s older and worries more. And then Sven notices that Lars’ eyes are so _blue,_ like his own, but more deep, like the sea.

 

Sven’s throat goes dry.

 

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna use the restroom,” he forces out, trying to keep his voice steady. Lars is looking at him. “I got a weird taste in my mouth.”

 

Sven rises, and walks to the other end of the restaurant, but he doesn’t need to look back to know that his brother’s eyes are focused on him the whole time.

 

When he reaches the bathroom, he stares at his reflection, and wonders if he can feel attracted to himself like the way he feels an attraction towards Lars—but it’s not the same. Lars has sharper bones, higher cheeks, less crinkles on a forehead—

 

And Lars apparently also has some stronger 6th ‘twin sense’ because he walks into the bathroom, and Sven doesn’t even need to turn to know he’s still staring at him. The footsteps come closer, until he hears light breathing near his ear.

 

“You okay?” he asks, and Sven nods. Lars is quiet for a moment.

 

“You’re not.” And no, he’s right—Sven really isn’t okay. He wants to be, but he can’t escape the hawk eyes of Lars—especially at this near proximity.

 

“Did I do something? Because you’re avoiding me,” Lars begins, forehead crinkling, and eyes still staring at Sven.

 

Sven wishes he hadn’t turned around at that moment, because Lars’ eyes are so bright, so full of concern, so _fucking blue_ and deep, and Sven just looks into them, _falls_ into them because they’re really just like water—

 

And then, Lars is kissing him, lips soft and smooth on his, and Sven groans and pulls him closer, completely abandoning all the warnings going off in his head. The mouth beneath his parts a little, and Sven ducks his tongue in, relishing in the rush he gets. Lars’ mouth is warm, like a furnace, and it just feels so _wrong_ when Sven pushes harder, but it just feels so _good._

When Sven tastes the alcohol on Lars’ tongue, though, he tries to tell himself that he’s drunk too, and that he totally isn’t taking advantage of Lars—tries to tell himself that he’s wasted, when he hasn't even had a drop of alcohol yet.

 

**V.**

 

 A few weeks later, Sven stumbles in their hotel room, head nauseous and entire body sore. He really shouldn’t have gone out to drink with the guys, because Mats is a bloody _bottomless pit_ that can consume inhuman amounts of alcohol. He figures that he’s at least better than Thomas, who gets drunk after about three beers.

 

And he thanks the heavens that he’s not Mario, who obviously was doing something to Marco under the table, because after Mario got drunk, and after Marco got drunk _enough,_ they both left the table and went somewhere—who knows where—and came back, clothes unbuttoned incorrectly and hair roused up in odd angles.

 

Sven doesn’t want to know.

 

But he does know that he’s wasted as _fuck_ at the moment, and that if Lars sees him, he’s going to be in some deep shit. Lars could always hold his alcohol better, and it’s just something that Sven never acquired along other traits.

 

He trudges into the bathroom, quietly,  his feet whispering against the cold tiles—

 

“Sven?” The question comes in a mumble, a soft, husky mutter that signaled sleep—okay, near sleep.

 

“Sven, is that you?”

 

“Yes, s’me,” Sven says—slurs—and mentally curses when he hears blankets rustling. Lars was never the type to pick sleep over Sven (and Sven secretly really, really appreciated that.)

 

“D’you need an aspirin?”

 

“No, I’m fine.”

 

“You don’t sound fine, or look fine,” Lars says, and Sven can practically _see_ his crinkling forehead through the door.

 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Sven says, with a slight laugh. “I’m definitely better than Thomas.”

“Thomas is different,” Lars says through the door, and Sven sighs. Older brothers.

 

The handle jiggles, and Sven has no choice but to let his brother in the bathroom—but once he opens the door, he realizes that he’s made a big mistake.

 

Lars isn’t wearing a shirt.

 

His eyes are covered with sleep; his cheeks flushed from the heat from the blankets.

 

Sven can’t look him in the eye when he steps close to press a gentle hand to his forehead, which was really redundant—all he did was drink. He didn’t get sick.

 

“Get to bed, okay?” Is all he says after a period of silence, and Sven nods.

 

And then Lars turns around to leave, and Sven gulps because his eyes trace the curve of his spine, the taut muscles evident under firm yet tender skin, and Sven’s fingers twitch—he wants to touch that skin.

 

And if he looks back on it, he was just really, really drunk, because he finds himself wrapping his arms around Lars, in a backwards hug, and presses his chest to his brother’s naked back.

 

“Thanks,” Sven whispers into his ear, and watches as Lars shivers slightly.

 

“N-no problem,” Lars manages to say, and then Sven sees blood creep up his brother’s neck in a rosy blush, and then he can’t help himself. It’s as if Lars was setting him up.

 

He presses a soft peck to the base of his brother’s neck, and commits the soft gasp that he makes into his memory.

 

And then his arms tighten around Lars, his lips start wandering higher, and Lars is a trembling, warm mess—

 

“Sven, we can’t,” Lars chokes out.

 

“ _I_ can,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Lars’ mouth, soft and gentle.

 

 

 A moment passes, and then Lars reaches a hand up to grip Sven’s wrist.

Their lips meet halfway, and Lars pretends that what he tastes on Sven’s tongue is sugar, and not alcohol.

 

 

 


	2. talk that talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, a close look into Thomas' phone call with Miro. 
> 
> Bonus chapter.

Thomas felt drunk. Hell, he wasn’t just drunk—he was utterly  _wasted,_ and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. His head throbs, and it aches, and Thomas just wants to go home and sleep—but of course, he’s here with the rest of the team, and everyone’s drunk.

 

Thomas really should stop letting Bastian talk him into these things.

 

He scrunches his face, and slumps forward a little—luckily, Manuel is there to catch him—and Thomas smiles.

 

“Thanks, Manu,” he slurs. The goalkeeper nods, but also shifts his eyes to Mats, standing in front of them, shit-eating grin appearing on his face. Mats—Bastian—someone—had suggested Truth or Dare, and Thomas didn’t want any part of it, because Manuel’s shoulder was really comfortable and he just wanted to go home. To home, or to a certain older striker’s embrace, where he could stare at deep blue eyes and drown in unrequited love. He swallows because the thought of obliviousness from the person he loves is horrid, and it makes his headache flare up again and yeah—Thomas  _really_  should stop letting Bastian talk him into these things.

 

_“You should come to the party with us,” Bastian said, hand pressing into his arm. “It’ll…get your mind off things.”_

Thomas laugh inwardly when he remembers what Bastian had said, and what he had left out.

 

_“So, I’ll expect you there, then,” Bastian says._

_Thomas is silent, and then, “It’ll get your mind off things, I swear.”_

_They both know ‘things’ was just another word for Miroslav Klose._

 

So Thomas sighs and lifts his head tiredly from Manuel’s shoulder, and he picks truth, hoping for an easy way out. And then he gives up on trying to be sober and snuggles closer to Manuel, whose arms are just really the covet of all the goalkeepers in this world.

 

“Man, your arms are so muscular,” Thomas says, more to himself than to Manuel. “I’m so jealous.” The goalkeeper colors slightly, makes a face, and takes another swig of his beer. He knew better than to fall victim to Thomas’ drunken antics.

 

“Careful now, Thomas, if Grandpa Miro saw you like that, he’d be upset!”

 

Thomas frowns, and then looks down, because  _of course_  it’s Mats who has to bring it up every time—and Thomas  _does_  blush a little, because it’s true—if Miroslav were here, he’d be wrinkling his brow and showing a disapproving face at the amount of alcohol present in everyone’s hands. And then he would be ushering everyone to their own rooms, telling them to get a good night’s rest, especially Thomas, because  _“Thomas, you’ve run more than anyone else, please go to bed.”_ But at the thought of the older man, Thomas struggles to not smile, because a pissed-off Miro was endearing, really.

 

“Wish he were here,” he mutters. He doesn’t really care anymore in his current state. Not like the team didn’t know already. At this, Manuel chuckles. Lukas’ ears perk up at the sound of  _Miro_ and he turns this way, and suddenly Bastian’s eyes are also focused on the scene.

 

And on Lukas, and the environment, but yeah, mostly on Lukas.

 

Of course Thomas picks truth, and of course he should’ve seen it coming that Lukas would be the first to ask him something, especially about that older striker with blue eyes and a creased forehead and  _a wife and twin sons with eyes as blue as their father’s—_

 

"So, Thomas, you ever thought about Miro in  _that_ way?" Lukas asked quickly, and Thomas almost misses the dark flash of danger in his eyes. But then Bastian scoots closer, hand hovering on Lukas’ thigh, and the other man relaxes immediately. Thomas knows Lukas is too involved with Bastian to be jealous, but of course he’s still possessive of his old friend. And Thomas understands, of course he does, that’s why he never brings up the striker when Lukas is around. He just doesn’t want to get jealous and possessive himself (as if his lingering touches on the pitch weren’t enough evidence already.)

 

It’s not that Thomas doesn’t want to talk about Miro—he  _loves_  doting off the older man, loves showering the man in compliments and praise—but he doesn’t feel comfortable here, at a party, with everyone having half an ear on the conversation. It just didn’t feel  _right._

But Thomas was always the one to go left anyway.  _“Don’t know what you’re talking about”_  is the best answer he can muster up, but Lukas is persistent.

 

“You know what I’m talking about!”

 

Thomas sighs, because Lukas and the others don’t  _get_  it. They  _don’t_. He doesn’t want Miro in  _that_ way, but, sure, it’d be great to feel the other man’s skin on his, great to be able to wake up to eyes the color of bright skies…but Thomas knows he can’t. Miro has a wife—and twin boys, who he’ll love and spoil for the rest of his wife. Heck, it’s probably life fucking with him too, because Luan and Noah love him to bits, and he can only pick them up and play with them, while keeping the fact that he’s in love with their dad a heavy secret in his heart. He loves Miro, and he loves football, and his team—they’re his family, and he loves them all. But then, he’s jolted to reality with a couple of news articles and the whistle of a referee at the end of the game, and he’s always reminded of the truth.

 

Miro has a family. And Thomas respects that more than anything else. He does love the man though, regardless of feelings being returned or not. He’s just happy to even be in the presence of the striker. He just makes Thomas feel at ease—maybe it’s his voice, or the gentleness in his eyes—whatever it is, Thomas is drawn to it. And he doesn’t want to ruin the bond he has with Miro.

 

So Thomas stares, seriously and solemnly at Lukas, and says, “He has a family.”

 

And that shuts him up.

 

But then—Lars, of all people—speaks.

 

“And yet I bet you were jealous when he snuggled me after I made a goal,” the older twin says, and a dopey, drunken smile blossoms across his usual stoic features. Thomas tries to push down the jealousy that spirals up from his stomach—it’s true, when he saw Lars make that goal, he too was running for the older twin—until he saw Miro’s smiling face, forehead to forehead with Lars—

 

It must be pretty evident on his face too, because Manuel pinches his back slightly and Thomas jolts out of it.

 

And then Bastian’s pushing a phone into his hand, with a number dialed in already. Thomas recognizes the number—he’d recognize the number even if he was half dead. But he doesn’t understand, and shoots Bastian a confused look. His face is soft, and his hand is still hovering on Lukas’ thigh, only this time, Thomas also sees Lukas’ hand on top of it.

_Oh._

_So that’s how it is._

He’d always wondered about Lukas and Bastian, he knew they had intimacy, but the hands confirm it—although, he’d always thought Lukas had something for Miro, but the situation with Bastian makes Thomas slightly more relieved.

 

“Call Miro,” Bastian says gently. “I know you want to.” And then his eyes are looking into Thomas’, and so are Lukas’, and even Manuel’s eyes—

 

Thomas doesn’t know how to react when he sees Manuel’s finger press on ‘call’. And then, he sees and hears the faint rhythmic ring from the phone, and suddenly, the screen clicks to a timer.

 

_Shit._

 

He stands up in a hurry, straightens his back, and shoves a hand through his hair—which was really stupid, considering that the person can’t really see him through a phone.

 

“Hello? Thomas?” A clear voice asks, and he can hear a slightly confused tone.

 

“Hello? Hey—Miro,” he begins.

 

“Thomas, do you know what time it is?” And Thomas can practically picture the wrinkles on Miro’s face; picture a furrowed brow, but also big blue eyes that contain everything he wants in life. Something tugs in him at the thought of playing football without the older striker, but he pushes it away.

 

“Yeah, I know what time it is,” he begins again, and wonders worriedly if Miro notices the slur in the words. “Listen, Miro—“

 

“Thomas, it’s okay to celebrate, but please remember that your health is first—” 

 

“Yeah, I know,” Thomas cuts him off. “Listen, Miro…”

 

“Thomas, I’m always listening,” the man laughs across the phone. It’s light and clear and Thomas wants to hear it forever.

 

“Since I’m always talking, right?” Thomas laughs too, and he realizes that he has a gigantic grin on his face that shrieks  _I’monthephonewiththepersonI’minlovewith,_  and everyone is gawking at him with faces that ranged from amused to pity.

 

It’s Manuel’s face next to him that urges him on, though. The goalkeeper’s keeping eyes away from Thomas but ears close to the conversation, and he’s tense—he’s waiting for trouble from the rest of the party. But Thomas trusts his friend to handle any intervention, and thanks the heavens mentally for the existence of Manuel Neuer.

 

“I love you,” Thomas breathes across the speaker, and he doesn’t even care. He’s said it, and it doesn’t matter. The line is quiet for a few seconds.

 

“And you should know I love you just as much,” the older man says gently. “I love you, and I love everyone else too, Thomas.” The tone of his voice is gentle, and Thomas wonders if Miro is smiling.

 

“No, I really do,” he says again, seriously, and hears Miro laugh again.

 

“Luan and Noah would be happy to hear that,” Miro says, and there’s a tug at Thomas’ heart again. He wants a family life with Miro too. Life isn’t fair though, since he’s got a penis and no uterus.

 

“Miro—,” he breathes, and is cut off because suddenly, Manuel has fingers around his wrist and is ushering him out of the room and into the balcony, and Thomas is really, really grateful that the goalkeeper wants him to have his privacy. Mats is about to shout in protest, with the rest of the room groaning because they just lost some free entertainment, but then Manuel purses his lips and shuts the backyard door. The click of the lock is a cruel sound to the people in the room, but the best sound to Thomas. He has his privacy now, and a friend to protect it. He looks to Manuel, and the goalkeeper nods at Thomas, and settles on the floor, leaning against the wall and staring up at the night sky.

 

“Yes, Thomas?” Miro’s voice drifts through the speaker, and Thomas shifts the phone closer to his ear.

 

The evening breeze is cool in his face, but he’s warm from alcohol and affection passed through cellphone speakers.

 

He smiles.

 

“Nothing, Miro, just wondering how your day went.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Manuel smile along with him, and, even though they’re all drunk, Thomas knows that this conversation with Miro—and many more to come—will always be stored in his heart.

 

He sits down too, leans against wall, lets his feet touch Manuel’s, and talks to Miro for the rest of the party. Even if he’s drunk and Miro isn’t, this conversation is real, and so are Thomas’ feelings.

 

“I love you,” Thomas says again, affectionately, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t hear the rest of Miro’s reply, and falls asleep on Manuel’s shoulder.

 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s dawn, everyone’s asleep, and there’s a phone in his hand, the call time reading  _07:53:12._  There’s the sound of steady breathing and soft snoring on the other side, sounding so peaceful and so  _Klose,_ but so far—and a smile blooms on Thomas’ face.

He wakes up Manuel, and they sneak out of the room, in search of breakfast and aspirin.


End file.
